recent scribbles

never interlocking ideas put to paper

Everything in the world is made up of tiny little particles. i'm a particle, you're a particle. We are all particles. Sometimes these particles dance, sometimes they laugh, but most times they move. They move to the beat they established at birth, constantly resulting in a microscoping earthquake that neither you, nor i have control over. We are particles, simply put, we create the havoc in the beginning, and deal with it for the majority of our natural born particle lives. In a way, we are like the stars that disappear in the night, we don't know it yet, but we will one day, just, vanish without reason. We are particles, this is what particles do.

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I assume you know the drill. Boy grows up, becomes a man, takes on the responsibility of life. He reflects often and deeply within his soul to pull forth the effort to get through the treacherous path laid ahead many years prior by the wisdom of something else. What deep personality affliction will he be containing? Shall his mind be forever plagued by thoughts of grandeur, never achieved? Shall his mind wander aimlessly from the clouds to the stars, all the while never does REALITY understand him? Will he believe his thoughts unoriginal and worthless in the grand scheme of "everybodyism". Never shall a man be haunted so long, by so much. Such is a life lived on borrowed time and on moments that cease once captured on film. And in the frames of that film, motionless the beauty and pain. His thoughts grasp firmly to his heart, his heart firmly to his body.
His body, firmly to the ground.

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The young are coming up from behind, with so much dischord, that the people you already know will be taken out systematically by the anger and torment of those teenagers seeking solace within rock music. They justify their actions with lyrics based solely on bitter disgust for the masses, yet, in truth are amassed. We frankly as grownup lost generations are in the middle of a war in which we will not survive. Our love for beauty and art is in jeapordy from those who feel no remorse. Whatever shall we do? Where should we hide? If turning off the television is not enough, will we ever be safe? The books we read, and worlds we seek outside these boundries lay no safety from these minions of angst.

Its like the 90's all over again.

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I've ran my bath. This bathtub i shall sit, immersed in what nutrient of life is left. I shall not drown myself in the bath. That is far to cliche. No i merely will stare at my toes and wish to myself that a picture of me siting in the bathtub alone and desolate eyed. That would be a good picture. Maybe if I rest soundly in this bath, maybe i will be like Archemides. Maybe i will figure out the meaning of it and laugh cordially to myself and wonder whether anyone realized it was all that simple.

Maybe.